


Sharing is Caring

by lockedin221b



Series: Three's Company [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Insecurity, M/M, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:26:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He was going to get married in a few months, and his fiancé and best friend were getting along better than he could have ever hoped. Life was good and everyone was adjusting smoothly.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>At least until one Sunday morning in August when John looked up from his paper to see Sherlock standing before the sofa.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharing is Caring

**Author's Note:**

> Wow this took me way longer than it ought to have.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.
> 
> As usual (at least lately), not very edited. Feel free to point out errors. Politely.

Sherlock’s return from the dead had been enough of a mental trip for John. The prospect of him moving back into 221B was an entirely different obstacle. It wouldn’t have been a problem had Mary not moved in a year earlier and she and John were not engaged and had no plans to stay on at Baker Street. But she had, and they were, and they did.

Six months into the new living arrangements produced some interesting results, though. Mary took Sherlock’s oddities in stride, with more patience than John ever had. She drew boundaries and put down rules—things John never had a hope of accomplishing in his bachelor life with Sherlock. The shocking part was that Sherlock actually fell in line with her ultimatums. Not that she ever posed them as ultimatums, but it seemed clear enough to everyone. Designated areas for Sherlock’s equipment and experiments, a new miniature fridge for his specimens, no cacophonous noises—violin, gun, etc.—between certain hours of the night. There were some things even Mary didn’t bother trying to remedy, like his tendency to insult any and all guests, the occasional mornings he would stroll out through the kitchen with little more than a bed sheet wrapped about him, less on a few occasions. But she took that in stride, too. “Oh, don’t pay him any mind. He just likes to show off how brilliant and unsociable he is. More tea?” “Sherlock, pants and trousers please. We don’t need you giving Mrs. Hudson a heart attack.”

And the unspoken: one step too far, and Sherlock was out. This was John’s home now, John and Mary’s. A person couldn’t just come back to his best friend after three years of letting him believe he was dead and think everything would snap back to place like an elastic band.

For the most part, despite the occasional grumbling or glower, Sherlock settled back in. Soon he was back to his indefinable experiments, his sulking, his bouts of boredom, and welcoming all manner of person through the flat if there was a promise of an interesting case. That was something Mary allowed at all hours, so long as Sherlock kept it quiet when she and John were sleeping because they, after all, still had eight-to-five jobs in the mornings.

Perhaps the most startling of all this, for John at least, was the fact that the two got on. It wasn’t just superficial, for his sake. It also didn’t take on the appearance of a traditional camaraderie, though nothing ever did look traditional with Sherlock. It was the way Mary would slide a specimen dish from the “eating” side of the table to the “science” side with a little quirk in her mouth, but without saying a word to Sherlock even if he was standing right there. It was the way Sherlock called her an idiot, much like he did John and Greg—practically endearing.

So everything settled. John had a decent paying job as a surgical consult and part-time teacher, and he could even slip out to help Sherlock with the odd case here and there. He was going to get married in a few months, and his fiancé and best friend were getting along better than he could have ever hoped. Life was good and everyone was adjusting smoothly.

At least until one Sunday morning in August when John looked up from his paper to see Sherlock standing before the sofa. It was still early, and the other two tended to sleep in on Sundays. John had expected another hour to himself, but he also was remembering what it was like to not have too many expectations when it came to Sherlock and a schedule. Or personal space.

“Morning. Water’s still hot if you want a cuppa.”

Sherlock looked down from his exaggerated height. “Did you miss me, John?” he spoke in a low voice that made John’s skin prickle from his neck to his tailbone.

“What?” John frowned. The sleep wasn’t entirely gone from his own head; he’d only been up for ten or fifteen minutes. “You mean when- Yes, of course I did. I told you I did.” He folded his paper and put it aside. “Is something wrong?”

“Did you miss me?” He moved before John could reiterate his answer, taking a half step so one leg settled between John’s knees and pressed one aside. “Did you miss me, here?” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arm and back of the sofa. “Did you miss my head between your thighs, your legs over my shoulders—”

“Sherlock!” John yelped, sinking as far back into the sofa as he could. He glanced at the stairs and lowered his voice. “What are you doing?”

“We didn’t have much time before. Only a few weeks.” Sherlock closed his eyes. “I hadn’t expected things to move so quickly with Moriarty. I thought we would have more time.” He opened his eyes, bright grey and piercing. “I need to know, John. Did you miss me? Us?”

John licked his lips, cursing his body as it acted of its own volition, warmth settling low. “I- I did. For a while, yes, of course I did. But—” John swallowed “—but I found Mary. And you were gone. I thought you were gone.”

Sherlock gave the barest nod. “And now? Do you still miss it?”

“I- Maybe, a bit. But that’s gone, Sherlock. That possibility is gone. I have Mary. I’m happy with Mary. I love Mary.” The last sentence strengthened his resolve and he straightened his back. He pushed his hand against Sherlock’s arm. “Maybe if things had gone differently, but this is how things are now, Sherlock.”

He honestly expected Sherlock would push him. It would have been very like Sherlock. Once John had finally owned up to his attraction, to his sentiment, Sherlock had pounced—literally and metaphorically. It wasn’t that Sherlock wouldn’t take no, though. John was afraid of saying yes.

“What are you two lads up to?” Mary yawned as she passed from the stairs through to the kitchen.

Another blessing had been Mary’s nonchalance when it came to Sherlock invading John’s personal space. John reached for his paper. “Noth—”

“John and I have unresolved sexual tension. I was trying to assess if it would become problematic in the future.”

John forgot the newspaper as his entire world crashed around him.

Mary froze in the threshold to the kitchen. She set both bare feet flat on the floor before slowly turning to face them. She barely glanced at John before making and keeping firm eye contact with Sherlock. “And your assessment?” Her voice and expression were flat, completely devoid of any hint that might suggest what was about to happen, and which landmines to avoid. It was one thing she could do as well as Sherlock, and it had even managed to throw the consulting detective more than once. Impressive, but dangerous for the recipient.

Sherlock spoke with an equal lack of expression, “Potential is low, but it is not entirely lacking.”

“Is that so?” She crossed her arms in a way that managed to appear neither threatening nor defensive. Contemplative. She was measuring the situation as much as Sherlock was. John, in the meantime, felt like he had lost all cognitive function except that to watch and listen.

“John, as you know, is an incredibly loyal individual.”

Mary nodded.

“I do not believe he has ever had his loyalties as severely divided as he would were the opportunity to present itself.”

Mary quirked a brow. “Opportunity?”

“To have sexual intercourse with me. Or, in perhaps the more appropriate vernacular, an affair, as I would not anticipate the hypothetical situation to be merely fucking.”

John’s jaw slacked, and as much as he wanted to shout at Sherlock to shut up, he had even less verbal capabilities now than he had a moment earlier.

“Is that so?” She didn’t look at John when she asked this, but a shadow of emotion started creeping into her expression.

“You aren’t taking me seriously, are you?” Sherlock’s back was turned to John by now, so he couldn’t see his face, but he started to sound annoyed.

“Oh no, I’m taking you very seriously.” The small smile forming suggested otherwise. Finally she looked at John. “So.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you. It didn’t start until right before—before St. Bart’s—and then—”

“It’s fine.” Her smile warmed and she made her way over to the couch. Sherlock took one step to the side.

“What?” John blinked.

“I guessed as much, love.” She held out her hands and he took them. “I didn’t want to press it. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would, but it wasn’t my place to ask.” Her gaze flicked over to Sherlock. “Well, at least not until now.”

John squeezed her hands. “Mary, forget what he said. I wouldn’t—”

“But is there any reason we can’t share?”

Had it been a different time and place and situation entirely, John would have appreciated the startled look on Sherlock’s face, and the fact that Mary had put it there. But, considering the situation at hand, he jumped to his feet and dragged Mary to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, glancing through to the sitting room to ensure Sherlock hadn’t followed them. “This isn’t one of his games, Mary.” He steeled himself before meeting Mary’s eyes. “He’s not... He’s not making this up, Mary. Before you, before St. Bart’s—he and I—”

Mary pressed a hand to the side of his face and smiled. Both were warm and soothing to his panicked mind. “I know, John. I’ve known for a while.”

John started. “You have?”

“I guessed as much a long time ago, before he came back. His return just solidified it.”

“Mary,” he held the hand over his cheek, “I’m not going to leave you for him. That’s past.”

“I don’t want you to feel so torn, though.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You don’t want to admit it, but you are. And it’s alright. I was serious about what I said out there: I’d rather share you with Sherlock than risk losing you down the road.”

John’s brow creased. “You would never lose me, Mary.”

“I might.” She was still smiling as she brushed her fingers through his hair. “I know he cares about you. As much as I do, maybe more.”

“Mary!”

She pressed a finger to his mouth. “That’s what makes it alright. It’s fine, John.”

He shook his head. “This is ridiculous. He’s my best mate, and three years ago, yeah, there could’ve been something more. But that was three years ago. How could you think I would leave you for him? That there’s even a question of you-or-him?”

“You idiot. I’m telling you—it doesn’t have to be a me-or-him.”

“There isn’t,” John snapped, frustration bubbling inside of him. “There won’t ever be.”

“Sit down.” She said it gently, half plea and half command. John obliged and perched on one of the stools, and Mary stood between his legs with her hands at his waist. “You are so wonderful, John. More than you can ever see for yourself. A person would be foolish to let you go without a fight, and yet maybe they would just so you could be happy.”

John opened his mouth, but Mary put her finger over his lips again.

“I wouldn’t blame him, if he fought for you. I’d probably do the same in his place. But this isn’t just for you, John. I can’t promise that I wouldn’t let you go. I see what he does to you, the fire in you that becomes an inferno when he’s driving you mad or dragging you off on a case. And it’s wonderful to see from afar, but this close it can hurt. What’s another paediatrician compared to the world’s only consulting detective? There is none, of course. The day’s going to come where it does come down to me or him, and you’d be daft to choose me.” She brushed her thumb under his eye; he hadn’t even realised he was crying. “But I’ll be damned if I don’t try to put that day off as long as possible, so I’ll settle for sharing you with him.”

John covered her hand with his and pulled it away to kiss the palm. “You’re as brilliant as he is, Mary. Don’t let anyone convince you differently.”

“Oh,” Mary said, warm smile curling into a smirk. “Oh, I know I am.”

John chuckled and wrapped his arms around her. “I’m too damn lucky, that’s what I am.”

“Careful, Dr. Watson. This means you’ve got two geniuses to deal with now. No holding back.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, even if it does drive me up the wall.”

Mary looked up at him grinning. “Besides, who says we can’t have a little group bonding?”

John’s brow arched.

“Scandalised, are we?”

“I never forget that you’re amazing,” John said with a slight shake of his head, “just how amazing.”

Mary turned so she was leaning back into John and facing the doorway to the sitting room. “How about it, Mr. Eavesdropper?”

Sherlock slipped into view from just beyond the threshold.

John scowled half-heartedly at him.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him before turning his attention to Mary. “I don’t particularly care for intercourse with women.”

“Good thing I’m not asking you to fuck me then.”

John suppressed a laugh and wrapped his arms around Mary’s waist. “She’s giving us a chance, Sherlock. All of us. We couldn’t ask for more.”

Sherlock gave one of his exaggerated sighs. “You have an incredibly knack for choosing outstanding partners, John.”

“You know,” Mary said, tilting back to John. “I’m not sure who he was complimenting more with than one.”

“Himself,” John said. “Always himself.”

Sherlock scowled, which only made the other two giggle.

John slipped off the stool and circled around Mary to Sherlock. “What do you say?” He slipped his hands under Sherlock’s dressing and beneath the elastic of his pyjama bottoms. He was hardly surprised to find a distinct lack of pants and squeezed Sherlock’s bare arse. His heart raced—from fear that this was just a dream or Mary was testing him and he was failing miserably, from anticipation of what was about to happen if this was real and Mary was sincere.

And then Mary was behind him, pushing her hands under John’s shirt.

Sherlock was staring down at John, eyes blown wide with shock and steadily growing arousal.

John moved one hand up, pressing at Sherlock’s lower back, and retracted the other to press over Mary’s. “You should see our bed,” John said, lowering his voice into his throat. “Much bigger than that old thing I used to have.”

“Had to be,” Mary murmured, resting her chin on John’s shoulder. “Hard to stay in one place when John Watson is fucking you. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?” She turned her face and pressed a hard kiss to John’s neck.

Sherlock seemed to finally reign in his mind because he replied in a steady, low baritone that shot straight to John’s groin, “You should see him when he’s the one being fucked.”

Mary moaned against John’s neck and pushed her body flush with his, sliding her hands from his stomach to his pelvis. John pressed against her hands, at the same time taking his hands from Mary’s fingers and Sherlock’s back and wrapping them around the back of Sherlock’s neck. He leaned up and Sherlock met his kiss eagerly, one hand wrapping around the back of John’s neck and the other pushing up under his shoulder to rub against his chest. Mary moved her head aside for Sherlock’s hand and instead kissed John’s shoulder through his shirt. Her hands moved down, fingertips brushing his prick, which twitched and began to swell beneath her touch.

They barely had enough resolve between the three of them to make it upstairs, all the while neither Sherlock nor Mary completely losing touch with John. And yet neither fought for purchase. They obliged when the other wanted a chance to capture John’s mouth, to suck his neck, feel his prick, lick his scar, rub his nipples. John found himself laying flat on the bed, tenderly stripped, as two sets of hands, lips, tongues, teeth pleasured and marked him.

Mary lowered her mouth to his ear, breathing against it before murmuring, “I want to open you up, and then I want to watch him fill you.”

“Oh god yes,” John groaned. He rolled onto his side so his back was to Mary, and he found Sherlock stretched out in front of him. It had been far too long since he had admired the pale, lithe body before him, and he didn’t feel guilty in accepting that now. He stroked the white flesh, the dusting of dark hair. Sherlock took his hand and lifted it to his lips, sucking and nibbling the fingertips.

Behind him, Mary popped the cap on the lube and John spread his legs like Pavlov’s fucking dog.

Sherlock lowered John’s hand and pushed himself up into a partial reclining position. He peered over John’s side. “That’s plenty,” he said. “One at a time. Take it slow. His muscles will occasionally contract. When they do, wait for him to relax before continuing.”

John expected a snarky reply from Mary, that she knew how to do this. She and John had done this much before—they were both doctors, they knew what pleasured the body, and neither of them had been shy about it. But Mary seemed complacent in following Sherlock’s instructions. Maybe because she knew they would be going further than what she had done to John; maybe because this was one part of John with which Sherlock was far more acquainted; maybe she was just proving that she trusted Sherlock when it came to John.

Speculation dissolved as she worked her finger into him. This would be alien to Mary from here on out; she’d fingered John before, but she’d never stretched him.

Sherlock reached over John, apparently to guide Mary’s hand. “Slowly.

John closed his eyes and inhaled Sherlock’s scent, relaxing into Mary’s touch. Part of him wanted desperately to touch himself. He was hard, had been for a while now, and he was begging to leak. But he wouldn’t let this end before there’d even been some proper fucking, so he took hold of Sherlock’s torso instead, pouring his tension out by running his nails down his sides. Sherlock sucked in between his teeth and John grinned to himself.

Mary was spectacular. She caught on to Sherlock’s instruction quickly, moving her fingers inside John as if she’d done so a thousand times before, brushing and pressing against his prostate at the perfect moments with the perfect amount of pressure. He shuddered and moaned when she finally retracted. She kissed his shoulder and moved up to his neck and behind his ear. She hummed and whispered, “You are gorgeous, love. Bottoms up.”

John turned onto his stomach and spread his legs, pushing his arse into the air.

Mary brushed her clean hand through his hair, murmuring, “If I’d known you liked it this much, we could’ve gotten a strap-on ages ago.”

John groaned and turned to kiss her. “Don’t throw that idea out the window.”

His heart rate picked up again when he heard the tear of foil and the telltale shift on the mattress behind him. Mary still knelt by him, combing his hair with her fingers, but she was obviously and unabashedly watching Sherlock.

And there was no evidence of hesitancy on Sherlock’s part. He pressed the head of his cock against John, stroking his back for a moment before he gripped John’s thigh and pushed in.

John muffled his cries in the duvet until Sherlock’s dick was entirely enveloped by John’s arse. Mary’s hand had still on his head. “Does- Does it hurt?”

“God no,” John panted. There was always the initial burn as he stretched and relaxed around Sherlock inside him, but pain was far from his mind. “It’s wonderful.” And it was. His body welcomed Sherlock in as much as his mind and his heart. It was, bizarrely, like coming home.

But it wasn’t just Sherlock inside him—though, Christ, that was brilliant, and John hadn’t realised how much he had missed this feeling. It was Sherlock and Mary, both with him, both wanting to make sure he was happy. And he was—god he was. He managed to find Mary’s hand, face still mostly buried in the duvet, and gripped it tight.

Sherlock made the first slow thrust, and John’s entire body screamed with pleasure.

“Hold on,” John panted, and his body immediately berated him.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock stilled, hands loosening on John’s hips.

“Mary, get another condom.” He forced himself up, swallowing the whines and whimpers as ever movement shifted where Sherlock was inside him. “I want you to be a part of this.”

Mary nodded and dug out a second condom from the nightstand. Sherlock shifted back, holding John against him, while Mary positioned herself in front and gently rolled the condom onto John’s prick. She shimmed onto her back and opened herself to John. The sounds she made as he worked into her sent fire through him. They always did. He kissed her cheek and brushed the hair from her eyes.

“This,” she panted, “is going to take some coordination.”

“Tilly Briggs,” Sherlock said.

Mary gave a perplexed, “Excuse me?” at the same time John grinned and replied, “Brilliant.”

“There was a piece I began composing while working on a case in 2010.”

John nodded. “I liked it so much that, after the case was wrapped up, I gave him hell until he finished it.”

Mary smiled with unabashed wonder. “You boys.”

Sherlock began tapping the notes against John’s hips. He giggled before Sherlock thrust and made him gasp, and then he fell into the music that played on his skin and inside his body and mind. He took it up with his own fingers on Mary’s clit as it began to crescendo and none of them bothered to keep in the sounds that were ripped from their throats. John bucked out of time and thrust into Mary as he clenched around Sherlock and shouted, coming more violently and blissfully than he had in a long time. Sherlock forwent the music after that and rammed John so hard that he inadvertently continued to rut into Mary, who had pushed his limp hand aside to finger herself to orgasm, squeezing John’s oversensitive prick inside her, arms thrown around him and clinging with desperate pleasure as Sherlock continued to pound John.

 

With some miniscule amount of awareness left, John recognised what Sherlock was doing. He’d done it before—tried to see how long he could go after John’s arse had gripped him in orgasm and brought him to the edge. John nuzzled his face into Mary’s neck, his fiancé still writhing and whimpering beneath him, and timed his last bout of energy just right so that when he squeezed his arse around Sherlock, the man came with a surprised yelp, bucking his hips against John’s arse before behind over him and shuddering out he ripples of his orgasm.

Mary regained enough breath to groan, “If you two louts collapse on me, I will make sure neither of you gets laid for a month.”

John chuckled and weakly elbowed Sherlock off his back. He winced as Sherlock pulled out, and Mary stroked his cheek. He turned his head and kissed her fingertips. “‘m fine.” He lifted himself off and out of her and flopped onto his side. “Just don’t expect me to do anything tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Monday, love.”

John groaned and threw a hand over his eyes. “Can I call in well-shagged?”

Mary giggled and kissed his chin.

When John realised Sherlock had been silent since orgasm, he opened his eyes and propped himself up. Sherlock was sitting behind him on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Mary yawned and muttered, “Then come here, you idiot. Or does he not spoon?” she said to John through sleepy but evident concern.

“He spoons, when he’s not being stupid.” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and gave him a tug. “If you think you’re getting out of this with just the fucking, think again.”

Sherlock looked them over. Now that the sex was over, his mental faculties were quickly reinstating themselves at the forefront of his mind.

And John would have none of that. “Lay down before I sock you.”

Sherlock lowered himself behind John, tentatively putting a hand on his side. John grabbed it and dragged it over his stomach. He wormed his other arm under Mary’s neck, and she snuggled in close.

“Mm,” John hummed. “I am one lucky son of a bitch.”

“Oi,” Mary said. “I may not have use of my limbs right now, but my teeth still work.”

“Give me another thirty minutes before you start up again with the foreplay.”

Mary and John laughed and, at the base of his neck, John felt Sherlock’s smile.


End file.
